


burn a candle for you

by Anonymous



Category: Grand Theft Auto V, Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Angst, Cuddling, Dubious Consent, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Abuse, M/M, Prostitution, Self-Worth Issues, Touch/Intimacy Issues, Unsafe Sex, Vomit Mention
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-24
Updated: 2019-07-24
Packaged: 2020-07-16 23:46:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,054
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19942165
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: Jimmy showing up on his doorstep wouldn’t be the most unusual thing in the world, if Stan didn’t know for a fact that Jimmy’s supposed to be working tonight.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Please heed the tags.

It’s 3am on a Thursday evening. Stan’s used to working odd hours; he’s got water deliveries lined up until noon. Water never sleeps, not in a city like Los Santos, where people are always dehydrated from all the alcohol they drink. And Stan’s the only man for the job. **  
**

It’s a big responsibility, one that Stan didn’t think he was going to be saddled with when he came to Los Santos, but he wouldn’t have it any other way. Most of the water in Los Santos is contaminated, which probably contributes to why people act so wild around these parts.

Stan’s van is idling out back, loaded up with waters already. His fannypack is somewhere in his closet, which is what he’s digging around for when his doorbell rings.

Stan pauses in his search.

 _Huh_.

It’s not out of the ordinary for people to be awake at this hour, but it _is_ out of the ordinary for his doorbell to ring. Stan delivers water, he doesn’t wait for people to come pick it up. And, Jimmy had told him early on not to give out his address, in case bad folks came lookin’.

“Huh,” Stan says out loud, when the doorbell chimes again. Whoever it is must be _desperate_ for water to come at this hour. They’ve probably got a real thirst for it.

Stan stands up and goes to his door, glancing through the eyehole to see who it is.

It’s _Jimmy_!

Which makes Stan’s heart skip a beat. Jimmy showing up on his doorstep wouldn’t be the most unusual thing in the world, if Stan didn’t know for a fact that Jimmy’s supposed to be working tonight. It’s the only reason they’re not cruising around doing deliveries together.

Earlier, around 5pm, Jimmy had mumbled something about needing to “get Alabaster his cut”, which Stan has come to learn means Jimmy’s _other_ line of work. The one he doesn’t like talking about. The one that causes him to stare off into space sometimes, with a haunted expression on his face that Stan doesn’t like.

Jimmy’s standing on his doorstep now, jacket in hand. Stan can’t see him too well; it’s dark outside and there isn’t much by way of lighting outside his apartment, but he’d recognize that blue hair anywhere.

Stan opens the door, grinning, and-–

–-and.

 _And_.

Jimmy sways unsteadily on his feet, a lazy smile on his face. Even with half of his face in darkness, Stan can see a bruise on his cheek, dark purple and mottled, and the sight of it nearly makes him see red. Someone _hurt_ Jimmy.

“Hey, hot stuff,” Jimmy slurs, an easy grin on his face. Like he’s trying to seduce Stan, like he’s a _client_ –-

“Jimmy! Are you okay?” Stan says, stepping aside so Jimmy can come in. He wants to reach a hand out to steady Jimmy, but the last time he touched Jimmy without telling him first, he almost got punched in the face.

Jimmy’s got his coat in one hand, and he’s shivering, small tremors running through him. He nearly trips as he stumbles into Stan’s apartment. It looks like he’s _limping_ , though he could just be drunk and wobbly.

“Yeaaaah, s-sorry to uhhhh…” Jimmy says, like his tongue’s too thick in his mouth, “to come…heh… _come_ …to come unpronounced. I mean…unannounced.”

Even from a short distance away, Stan can smell alcohol on Jimmy. Jimmy collapses heavily onto his couch, barely catching himself in time not to fully faceplant and crush his sunglasses. He blindly takes them off his face and sets them down on the coffee table, pressing his face into the cushions, like it’s too much effort to keep his head up. Stan’s a little worried he might suffocate.

He approaches Jimmy cautiously, but doesn’t touch him, even though he wants to place a hand on Jimmy’s shoulder to rub warmth back into his shivering form.

“When’s the last time you had water?” Stan asks. Because if Jimmy’s been drinking, that also means he’s dehydrated.

Silence.

For a terrifying moment, Stan feels himself go cold.

“Jimmy???”

“Hah!” Jimmy laughs, so loud and so delayed that Stan nearly jumps out of his skin. “I don’t need water, Staaan, my maaan, I just need some sweet, sweet, uhhh…” Jimmy peters off, like he’s forgotten what he wanted to say in the middle of his sentence.

This is Not Good. Stan’s never tasted alcohol in his life, so he’s not sure what it feels like, but he’s seen what it can do to people. Jimmy hiccups.

“Stay right there,” Stan says sternly, though he’s pretty sure that even if Jimmy wanted to, he wouldn’t be able to move very far in the state that he’s in.

Stan goes into the kitchen, digging around in the cabinets until he finds-–

-– _there_! Pedialyte powder. Grape flavoured. Probably expired, but it’ll keep Jimmy hydrated until Stan can find a proper substitute.

Stan fills a glass of water from the filter in his fridge and sprinkles the powder into it, swirling the contents with a spoon until it’s dissolved.

When Stan walks back into the living room–-

–-Jimmy is gone.

Stan blinks. Jimmy’s sunglasses are still on the coffee table, so he can’t have gone far. Stan quickly sets the water glass down on the table, glancing around the small living room.

He’s about to call out Jimmy’s name when he hears the muted but unmistakable sound of retching coming from the direction of the bathroom.

“Jimmy?” Stan says softly. The bathroom door is cracked open, a sliver of light shining through, though Stan can’t see inside.

He knocks as gently as he can on the door, hoping he doesn’t startle Jimmy. He hears the sound of Jimmy spitting into the toilet, breaths coming in shaky. 

“Jimmy? Can I come in?” Stan says, tempering his voice so that it’s a little lower. He knows that sometimes when he’s too loud, Jimmy gets freaked out. Especially if Jimmy’s just been with a client.

There’s a quiet grunt, so Stan takes that as a tentative yes, to push the door open just a little, not enough to actually enter the room. Jimmy can close the door again, if he wants to be alone.

Jimmy’s sitting on the tile floor of the bathroom, one arm resting on the toilet seat, spitting bile into the bowl. He’s trembling like there’s a live wire hooked into his bones, and he looks exhausted. Stan is suddenly struck by how _young_ Jimmy is–-Jimmy acts so tough sometimes that Stan forgets he’s only 27 years old. 

Under the bright light of the bathroom, Jimmy looks ill. He’s pale, hair damp with sweat, and now that he’s got his sunglasses off, Stan can see dark shadows underneath his eyes. The skin over his sallow cheekbones is stretched tight. There’s a bruise there too, just starting to form under the skin, and a small cut under his eye. Like maybe whoever hit him was wearing a ring.

Stan’s chest squeezes at the sight.

“Hang on,” Stan says, voice tight.

Stan goes to retrieve the pedialyte mix, and when he gets back to the bathroom, Jimmy’s hunched over the toilet, dry heaving again, though nothing’s coming up.

“Jimmy?” Stan says, quietly, “I, uh, brought you some water,” Stan says, when Jimmy finishes hacking into the toilet. When he looks up, his eyes take a moment to focus on Stan, and the glass in his hand.

“Water…that ain’t water…it’s purple…” Jimmy murmurs.

“Oh! It’s uh, water, mixed with pedialyte,” Stan says, handing the glass over. He thinks better of it when he sees how badly Jimmy’s hand is shaking, and gently takes the glass back, sitting down next to Jimmy.

“Pedialyte…isn’t that for babies?”

“Well, I know you’re not a baby, but it’s good for hydration!”

Jimmy still looks skeptical, so Stan takes a sip from the glass, just to show that he’s not trying to poison Jimmy with purple goop. It tastes chalky and artificially grape-flavoured, but Stan hums like it’s tasty anyway.

“Try it?” Stan says.

Jimmy nods, and winces, like the movement makes his head hurt. 

With Stan’s help, Jimmy tips some of the water into his mouth, cringing at the taste.

“It tastes like the Kool-Aid man sneezed purple powder into a drink,” Jimmy groans, after he’s taken a gulp.

“Well,” Stan chuckles, “that’s…you know what, you right, that’s a pretty correct observation, friend-o.”

Jimmy makes a face, but drinks some more of it, and for now at least, it seems like his stomach’s settled enough to not throw it all back up. Stan wants so badly to reach out and rub Jimmy’s back, make him feel better, but he doesn’t know if Jimmy would be okay with that.

Jimmy leans back against the wall of the bathroom, eyes closed, breathing in measured breaths like he’s trying to wrangle back nausea. Stan lets him have his space, offering the pedialyte water in small sips every few minutes. Sometimes Jimmy accepts it, and sometimes he doesn’t. 

The silence isn’t uncomfortable, but it’s somber. The kind of quiet that comes after every single layer of defense has been peeled away, and all that remains is raw exhaustion. Stan can see the fatigue in the way Jimmy’s shoulders are hunched, the way stress lines have written their way onto Jimmy’s face. 

“You wanna go somewhere more comfy, like the couch?” Stan murmurs. He’s not sure how long they’ve been sitting there-–minutes, maybe, or hours. He’s willing to sit there for as long as Jimmy needs him to. But Jimmy’s falling asleep, and Stan doesn’t want him to wake up more sore than he has to.

Jimmy nods blearily.

Stan offers out a hand to help pull Jimmy to his feet and Jimmy takes it, standing shakily. Stan loops Jimmy’s arm around his shoulder, and to his surprise, Jimmy leans into him bodily. He must be _really_ out of it to accept help like this–Jimmy doesn’t like taking help from anyone.

Stan reaches around Jimmy to flush the toilet, not looking too closely at whatever he’s thrown up. The contents are viscous and milky, and Stan really, _really_ doesn’t want to know.

He half carries, half leads Jimmy back over to the couch, setting him down gently and leaving the half-drunk glass of pedialyte on the table, within Jimmy’s reach in case he gets thirsty.

“Where…where you going?” Jimmy mumbles.

“I’m getting you an ice pack,” Stan says, by way of explanation. Which he does, walking over to the kitchen and opening his freezer. He likes to keep water in all forms at his disposal at all times, and it’s times like these that it really pays off.

He puts a few cubes in a plastic bag and wraps the bag up in a hand towel before walking back over to the couch. Jimmy’s curled up on it, eyes half-closed. He looks so small and vulnerable, and a wave of sadness hits Stan so hard it nearly takes the wind out of him. _What kind of friend am I, if I haven’t noticed that he’s been hurting all this time?_

“You, uh, didn’t. You didn’t do any crack, did you? You’re not on any drugs?” Stan says, because if that’s the case, he’s got no idea how to deal with someone coming out of a high, and he’s wondering if he needs to call for backup. He knows Jimmy would hate him if he did that, but he’d rather Jimmy be safe and alive than drugged and dead.

Jimmy shakes his head though, much to Stan’s relief. Just drunk, then.

“Here,” Stan says, offering the ice pack out to Jimmy. “For uh, for your face.”

Their fingers brush as Stan hands the towel-wrapped ice over, and just then, Stan’s phone chimes.

“Hang on, sorry,” Stan says, pulling out his phone and scrolling through his texts. It’s a message from guy that he was supposed to delivering water to tonight. Stan quickly shoots off a text, apologizing that he’s not going to be making any deliveries for the night.

Not when Jimmy needs him.

When Stan puts his phone back in his pocket, he catches Jimmy looking at him, stricken with guilt.

“I’m…I’m sorry,” Jimmy stutters, “I…I remember you said you were delivering water tonight…and if you need to…to go and do stuff, I can leave-–”

“Oh, don’t even worry about it,” Stan says quickly. “They can wait.”

“No, I shouldn’t…shouldn’t be bothering you like this…I’m…I’m a bad friend,” Jimmy slurs, and his eyes are watery–-before Stan can even think about what he’s doing, he’s moving closer, sitting on the floor next to the couch so he can be eye to eye with Jimmy.

“Listen to me, Friendly,” Stan says seriously, “you’re not a bad friend. You’re a good friend. The friendliest friend, actually, that I’ve met in Los Santos. The first day I was here, I was lost. And you helped me, when you didn’t have to. That’s what friends are for, right? We help each other. And I want to be here, with you, and I want to help you. Okay?” Stan says, carefully reaching over to run his fingers through Jimmy’s hair. He’s gentle about it, so Jimmy can stop him if he wants to.

Jimmy doesn’t stop him. He sighs into the touch, melting further into the couch cushions, eyes slipping closed.

“Mmk, Stan,” Jimmy murmurs. He sounds like he wants to put up a fight, but is too tired to.

Stan takes the ice pack from Jimmy’s slack hand and delicately presses it to Jimmy’s face.

Stan wonders how long Jimmy’s been doing this. If it’s been months–- _years_?–-since he’s started working for Alabaster.

Stan wonders how many other times something like this has happened, when Jimmy’s been drunk or stoned or high out of his mind, and hurt after meeting with a client. Did anyone bother trying to take care of him, when he got like this? Did Jimmy always have to take care of himself?

Stan tries to imagine it; Jimmy stumbling back to an empty apartment at an ungodly hour, entire body aching, feeling sick and hurt and used.

The thought of it makes Stan want to break things, as much as it makes him want to take Jimmy away from Los Santos, and help him find a better life. 

“Hey Stan?” Jimmy murmurs. Stan takes the ice pack off Jimmy’s cheek so he can speak.

“Yeah, Jimmy?” Stan says. It comes out harsher than he means it to, because he’s still thinking of all the ways he’d like to drown everyone who’s looked at his best friend sideways.

Jimmy shrinks back into the couch a little.

“Sorry, Jimmy, I uh, my voice. Sometimes it spazzes. You know, same reason why I get those random seizures sometimes that make me punch people in the face sometimes,” Stan says, by way of explanation. He really _would_ like to punch some people in the face right now.

“You think you could…” Jimmy starts, his voice cracking halfway through. 

“Could punch people in the face? Gladly,” Stan says vehemently.

It makes Jimmy snort a small laugh, which is a win, in Stan’s books.

“Thanks, pal,” Jimmy mumbles, “but…but I was wondering if…if…”

“What do you need? Water? Food? …water?” Stan asks desperately, because he feels–helpless. And he hates feeling that way. Jimmy can be hard to read, most times. He’s hurting, and Stan still doesn’t know how to help him. Stan feels like an idiot.

“I,” Jimmy shudders, like he’s cold.

“You’re…you’re cold?” Stan asks.

Jimmy doesn’t say anything.

“Lemme grab you a blanket,” Stan says quickly, making a move to stand, but Jimmy stops him with a hand around his wrist, his grip light and weak.

“Jimmy?” Stan says, uncertainly. Because it’s really starting to scare him now, not knowing what Jimmy needs.

Jimmy’s tugging on his wrist. Not hard, but with enough pressure for Stan to know it’s intentional. He’s tugging him down to the couch. Tugging Stan down _on_ him.

“Jimmy, Jimmy what’re you doing?” Stan says, because Jimmy still looks really out of it, and Stan doesn’t know where this is going.

“Please…” Jimmy says, his voice small, and Stan doesn’t know what he wants but he hates hearing Jimmy sound like this.

“Jimmy, I…you have to tell me what you need,” Stan says, and he can feel his heart breaking.

“You,” Jimmy finally says, voice cracking. “I need _you_.”

Stan’s brain doesn’t comprehend it, for a moment.

“You…you need me…to what?” Stan says, but he doesn’t know if he wants to hear the answer to that question. Because if Jimmy’s going to ask him to…to _do_ something to him, Stan won’t. Especially considering Jimmy’s still drunk. Especially consider what’s been happening to him–-it wouldn’t be right.

“Just,” Jimmy says, his voice a strangled whine, “can you just. Hold me? Please?” And he sounds so small, and tired.

 _Oh_.

“Yes, I, of course. Yes,” Stan says, and he’s relieved, _so_ relieved that Jimmy isn’t asking him to do anything else that he doesn’t even register being nervous about the fact that this is the closest he’s ever been with Jimmy.

The couch is way too small to comfortably fit two grown men–-it isn’t even big enough to comfortably fit _one_ grown man-–but Jimmy makes room, compacting himself so that his back is pressed flush to the back of the couch.

It’s awkward, at first. Stan almost knees Jimmy in the nuts and it takes a few seconds for them to find a comfortable position, but finally they settle, their legs tangled together. They’re pressed chest to chest; Stan’s got his arms wrapped around Jimmy, Jimmy’s got his face pressed into the hollow between Stan’s neck and shoulder. Stan can feel every rise and fall of Jimmy’s chest against his own. It’s a hug, essentially, but the longest and closest and _warmest_ hug Stan’s ever had.

It’s…nice. It’s the most intimate Stan’s ever been with _anyone_.

In his arms, Jimmy shivers–-Stan holds him a little tighter, and it feels like he’s gripping a bag of bones. Jimmy looks bigger when he wears his jacket, but in reality he’s all lean muscle and sharp bones. Stan presses his nose into Jimmy’s hair, and it smells like sweat, and stale cigarette smoke.

“They…” Jimmy says, but the word gets stuck in his throat like a strange hiccup.

Stan carefully rubs circles into Jimmy’s back. He has no idea what he’s doing; he’s never held someone like before, but it seems like the right thing to do.

Stan wants to say something encouraging, but he bites his tongue. This doesn’t seem like a good moment to jump in. It’s probably the first time he’s ever stopped himself from just saying the first thing that comes into his head.

“They…they were rough with me,” Jimmy croaks, and his voice has a horrible tremble to it, like he’s swallowing back the urge to cry. Stan is suddenly so angry he can’t see straight.

“I’m, I’m so fucking dumb, I. There was only supposed to be one of them, and then he brought his friend, and I told them it was okay because they were going to pay me more, and I-I-I need the cash and I’m so fucking stupid because I drank with them beforehand, and I drank so _much_ because I thought it’d make it better. But the whole time, I felt like I was… swimming underwater, I felt so…I wanted to throw up, and…I-–they didn’t use enough…it fucking _hurt_ –” Jimmy says and when he takes a breath, it sounds awfully like a sob, and Stan has to stop himself from squeezing Jimmy any tighter.

Stan thinks about Jimmy, loose-limbed and pliant and drunk, letting two strangers do what they want to him, _hurt_ him, and he feels something deeper than anger rush through him. _Hate_. He’ll have to ask Jimmy for their descriptions later, so he can hunt them down and murder them.

But that can wait. Jimmy doesn’t need his anger right now. It’ll scare him. For now, Jimmy just needs him to be there.

Stan doesn’t shush him. It feels wrong to try and tell him everything will be okay when it’s obviously not.

So he does the only thing he can, and holds Jimmy, as gently but as securely as he can.


	2. Chapter 2

Stan wakes up cold. Pale, weak light filters in through the blinds of the living room, dust particles floating in the air. He’s always been a heavy sleeper, so it takes him a while to realize why something feels wrong-–Jimmy’s gone. **  
**

Stan sits up, then, suddenly feeling much more awake, and worried, glancing around him.

“Jimmy?” Stan calls out tentatively. The half-drunk glass of pedialyte from the night before is still on the table, though most of the purple powder has settled back to the bottom of the glass.

Stan stands up–-and notices that, once again, Jimmy’s sunglasses are still on the table, his black leather jacket slung over the back of the couch. He can’t have gone far. Stan’s always been a heavy sleeper, though he has no idea how Jimmy managed to maneuver his way off the couch without waking him.

And that’s when Stan notices–-his front door is cracked open, just a smidge, not enough to be noticeable to someone who wasn’t looking.

Stan moves to close it, but spots motion out of the corner of his eye–-it’s Jimmy, sitting outside on the pavement a few feet away and to the right of the door, smoking a cigarette and watching the sunrise.

Stan nudges the door open, double checking to make sure he’s got his keys with him, before shutting the front door with a click behind him.

“Hey,” Stan says, quietly, taking a seat next to Jimmy. In the early rays of sunlight, the bruise on his face looks worse than it did last night–-an ugly shade of plum, mottled and dark. There’s also a series of small, unsightly quarter-sized marks near his collarbone. Stan thinks he knows what those are, but doesn’t want to put a name to them. 

Jimmy doesn’t show any indication that he’s heard Stan. He takes a long drag from his cigarette, holds his breath for a moment, and then lets it all out in one steady stream. The smoke dissipates, blending like milk into the dewy glow of early dawn.

Jimmy takes one last puff, then grinds his cigarette out against the ground.

“Stan…I want to apologize,” Jimmy says, not meeting Stan’s eyes. The words sound oddly stilted and formal in his mouth, like he’s been rehearsing them. Without his sunglasses on, the dark exhaustion circles underneath his eyes look worse. He looks like any other young crack dealer in Los Santos–-strung out, hungover, desolate. Like the weight of survival alone has aged him by years.

“Apologize for what?” Stan says.

“For…for showing up at your door unannounced in the middle of the night. For interrupting your delivery and your job. For…embarrassing myself, making you take care of me like I’m an infant,” Jimmy says, and he _still_ hasn’t looked at Stan, like he’s too ashamed to make eye contact. He’s playing with the butt end of his cigarette, unraveling the paper from the filter, and pulling the plastic filter apart. He’s _anxious_ , Stan realizes.

“Jimmy…why…why would you feel bad? You didn’t do anything wrong. I’m _glad_ you came to me,” Stan says, because it’s the truth. He’s never been good with words, and he doesn’t know how to tell Jimmy how relieved he is that Jimmy came to him, instead of going anywhere else.

“I’m an idiot. I shouldn’t have gotten so drunk, it was my fault. I thought it would make things better,” Jimmy smiles bitterly, the corners of his mouth twisting, “but, it never does.”

Stan hates the idea that this isn’t the first time Jimmy’s gotten drunk before meeting with clients. It makes things that much more dangerous, more out of control. Stan hates the idea that Jimmy _needs_ to do it, to numb the encounters and take the edge off so he can tolerate what people do to him.

Stan can see goosebumps pebbling on his arm from the chill.

Stan scooches a little closer to Jimmy, and then a bit more when Jimmy doesn’t pull away.

“Those people who hurt you…I’d kill them all, if you’d let me,” Stan says, without stuttering. There’s such _vehemence_ dripping from his words that he surprises even himself. Jimmy looks over at him, a little startled, but a little in awe, too. Like no one’s ever cared about him enough for him to be worth the effort.

But Stan cares. He cares so much that sometimes it _hurts_ , because he wants to help, but he doesn’t know enough about Los Santos and its seedy inner workings yet to know how to do it without putting Jimmy in danger.

“Thanks, Stan,” Jimmy says quietly. He smiles, just a little, and this time it doesn’t look wry.

The sun’s peeked up over the horizon now, washing everything in orange and pink. When it catches on the tops of the trees in front of Stan’s apartment, the leaves glow like they’ve been dipped in gloss.

Stan thinks about how unfair it is, that everything about this place is so pretty on the outside and destroyed on the inside. Like the way contaminated water can make fruit rot from the inside out.

But he thinks that maybe Jimmy’s the opposite. That on the outside, he is everything that Los Santos thrives on: drugs, and sex, and violence. But that his core is something good, something pure. And more and more, now, Stan can see light and kindness peeking through the cracks of Jimmy’s tough-guy veneer.

He wants to say all of that, but doesn’t know how to put any of it into words.

So instead, he just says “you’re a good dude, Jimmy.” And for some reason, it makes Jimmy snort, but he doesn’t say anything to counter it.

They’re quiet for a little longer, watching the sun climb higher into the sky. Soon, the rest of the city will wake. But for now, everything is still. Birds in the trees ruffle their feathers, shaking the morning chill off their delicate wings.

“But I’m not,” Jimmy says, quietly. It takes Stan a moment to remember the last thing that was said.

“I…I do drugs. I _sell_ drugs. I…I’ve hurt other people, and I’ve let people hurt me–-” Jimmy’s voice cracks.

Before Stan can really think about what he’s doing, he’s slinging an arm around Jimmy’s shoulders, pulling him in for a half hug. He thinks he’s done the right thing when Jimmy leans into it, just for a moment, before pulling away gently. But not completely. They’re sitting close enough that their thighs and shoulders are touching, and Jimmy hasn’t moved further away. Stan knows that Jimmy likes his space, doesn’t seem to like being touched in general, or maybe he’s just become accustomed to discomfort and pain associated with touch-–so even this, sitting close together like they are, is a big step. And Stan doesn’t take it for granted.

“Good people can still do bad things. It doesn’t mean they’re bad people,” Stan says softly. He’s met plenty of bad people in Los Santos, and Jimmy doesn’t even come close.

Jimmy nods, slowly. He still seems a little unconvinced, but Stan will keep saying it as often as he can until Jimmy finally starts to believe it.

Stan thinks about how Jimmy handed over cash without hesitation, without even knowing who Stan was, when they first met. How Jimmy was so eager and willing to show him around, to be a _friend_.

Stan thinks about how Jimmy deserves the world and has instead consistently been screwed over by people taking advantage of his kindness. And it makes him angrier than when Denise took Roy away from him.

He wants so much for Jimmy. And maybe he can’t provide everything for him, but he can be here. And hopefully his presence will be enough.

“You…you wanna help me with some deliveries today?” Stan says. He doesn’t want Jimmy to be alone. Especially not today.

Jimmy’s silent for so long that for a moment, Stan wonders if he missed what was said. But then Jimmy turns to Stan.

“Is…is that okay? I don’t want to. To bother you, or anything. And uhm, you don’t have to split the money with me,” Jimmy says.

Stan smiles. “Well, of course it’s okay, Friendly.” And even if Jimmy doesn’t want to take his money, Stan’s going to make sure he at least pays for all their meals for the day. And maybe he’ll try and slip some cash into Jimmy’s pocket at the end of the night.

It prompts a small, but genuine smile out of Jimmy.

“Thanks, Fanny,” Jimmy murmurs.

And then he leans closer to Stan, just a little.

Stan’s been around Jimmy for long enough to recognize what this is. An invitation, albeit a cautious one. Like Jimmy still isn’t sure if Stan wants him.

Stan wants him, the way flowers want for the sun, the way the tides yearn the moon. Deep, and steady.

He pulls Jimmy in close.

Jimmy sighs, barely audible, just a quiet exhale and a slump of his shoulders.

Stan leans in, projecting his every move so he won’t startle Jimmy, and presses a kiss to Jimmy’s temple, right above where the bruise begins.

He knows it isn’t right, what Jimmy puts himself through. And Stan doesn’t like it. Doesn’t like to see Jimmy shattered, doesn’t like having to pull the pieces of him together again.

But he’ll do it, as often as Jimmy will let him.

They sit together, watching the sun crest over the trees, the bright warm rays kissing their skin. It’s the start of a lovely day in Los Santos.

Stan thinks it’s going to be a good one.

\---

**Author's Note:**

> see [the piece](https://nostalg1k.tumblr.com/post/184693548414/please-come-in-x) that inspired the work
> 
> read my original [author's note](https://haepherion.tumblr.com/post/185228559031/spoilery-content-warnings-authors-note-for)


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